I may inadvertently have given the impression in the previous post that Mr BC and I are on the verge of purchasing a stately Georgian country house, around the extensive grounds and ornamental lakes of which Mr BC plans to disport himself proprietorially, attired in riding britches and a billowing white shirt (and very handsome he would look too, if this were ever to transpire), while I sit prettily at a variety of elegantly proportioned windows, wearing an empire-line frock and either playing the piano or daintily embroidering another fire screen.
This, I hasten to clarify, is not the case.
The new house (I'm aware that just saying this practically guarantees that the whole thing will fall through within days) *is* quite ancient, although in Jane Austen's day it would probably have been inhabited by a family of chandlers, tallow-merchants, chandlers' mates, apprentice tallow-merchants, etc. It dates from the mid-18th century, apparently, but it's built on the site of a much older, early medieval town, so the minute we (hopefully) get in there, I'll be out in the back garden in my rainbow jumper scratching at the soil with my dibber and trowel in search of vestigial middens and potsherds, like the GIANT ARCHAEOLOGY GEEK that I am.
I spent a good part of my formative years round at my Granny's house covetously reading out the property descriptions in Country Life (it's saying things like this that makes me feel I will never successfully be able to pretend to be from the ghetto) to anyone who would listen. Since every single property description in Country Life begins with the phrase 'Grade II listed' (and usually ends with the phrase 'stabling for six horses'), I developed very early on in my life a profound desire to own a house with this designation.
So while I was idly perusing the description for The New House, a primordial longing was rekindled in my (currently ampler than usual) bosom the moment I clapped eyes on the 'Grade II Listed' bullet point. In practice, all it means is that we can't replace the front windows unless it's with slavishly authentic, artisan-made reproductions, which will be never, as such windows no doubt cost A MILLION POUNDS each, so the living room might be a bit draughty. But then, as the living room is haunted, it's bound to be draughty anyway what with the chill spirits of the departed hanging around like eerie palimpsests of a forgotten past, so that's OK. I think.